


The Walk

by OneWhoSitsWithTurtles



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Persuasion - Freeform, Pre-Movie, Romance, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-03
Updated: 2011-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:56:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneWhoSitsWithTurtles/pseuds/OneWhoSitsWithTurtles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Point of no return, one second to go. Arthur/Eames</p><p>Inspired by the song "The Walk" by Imogen Heap</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Walk

**Author's Note:**

> **You can check out[here](http://onewhositswiththeturtles.tumblr.com/) to follow my Tumblr for info about me and story updates.**
> 
> Notes: This is pre-movie. This story is kind of my present to you in good faith that the novel is on its way. After writing a midterm Thursday morning and writing an essay over the weekend, I am going to not do any school work until the story is done! Expect to see the first chapter of Shades of Gray in a few short weeks!
> 
> Lyrics are in bold.
> 
> \------------  
> Fanart by the wonderful Raven009:  
> [A Rainy Day](http://raven009.deviantart.com/#/d3bm6ln)  
> [An Odd Weather](http://raven009.deviantart.com/#/d3bm6eh)

**Inside-out, upside-down,  
Twisting beside myself.**

 

Arthur felt his stomach flipping, jolting, spinning – seemingly turning itself inside out and twisting in every direction imaginable: up to his head, fogging his internal reasoning. To his heart, where it set a dangerously quick pace. Down and out across every nerve of his skin, energy and adrenaline thrumming through him. _Towards_ Eames. _Away_ from Eames – as far away as possible.

  
**Stop that now,** he demanded of his own body, silently screaming – begging – for obedience. He voiced the command aloud as well, voice clear and strong as it echoed across the desolate warehouse. Arthur’s voice didn’t waver – it never wavered – but that was quite different from the warring voices in his mind. “Stop that, Eames.”

 

“Stop what, darling?” Eames had his eyes trained on him across the small space of concrete separating the Point Man’s desk and the Forger’s favourite chair salvaged from a nearby street corner. Those eyes were always watching him; too constant, too curious, too soft, too... _aware_. The man was smiling – _smiling_ – in that way he always was when he knew he had struck a nerve – was close to achieving a true _response_.

 

“ _That_ ,” Arthur clarified with a biting tone, voice more stable and focused with his anger. “Stop calling me ‘darling’.”

 

“Why, darling?” Eames tilted his chair backwards, the front two legs in the air and the back two legs letting out a shattering scream as they skidded minutely across the cold concrete. Arthur prayed for the man to overbalance – tip backwards. Not because he wanted the man to hit the cold ground – _though that wouldn’t be terrible either_ , he thought to himself. But no, he just needed something – anything – to intervene, to get those knowing eyes off him. How had it come to pass that Arthur and Eames had been the last two in the warehouse for the night _again_? The rest of the team had left hours ago.

  
**'Cause you and I were never meant to meet.**

 

He didn’t voice the thought aloud, but it rattled and echoed through his head and body like a small piece of metal dropped down a weaving, metal pipe. A very loud and very distracting process. Arthur couldn’t allow – couldn’t _keep_ allowing this to happen. Every time he was alone with Eames – no, that was wrong. Even when he was surrounded by the team and Eames sent him one of those smiles, one of those ‘ _darling_ ’s – a vocal caress leaving the man’s sinfully lush lips and brushing along Arthur’s exposed skin – followed Arthur too closely with those eyes, and Arthur lost himself.

 

Arthur didn’t know what he wanted from Eames – wouldn’t allow himself to _decide_ what, specifically, he wanted from the Forger. He knew he wanted those lips on his own, on his skin, on his cock, on every nook of his body that even he didn’t yet know about but knew – _knew_ – that Eames had the skill to find and manipulate. But it was more than that, and that was unacceptable. Arthur had had casual flings before and knew the thoughts, the emotions and desires that came with those.

 

There was more to it when it came to Eames.

 

That was the problem. He didn’t know how far – how deep – it went, but he knew there was more to it than arousal alone. When he saw those smiles curl those wonderfully full lips towards Arthur – to _him_ , not to anyone else – his mouth traitorously fought to curve his own lips up in response. It was always a struggle to keep those hidden and he knew and hated that Eames was aware of the little twitch the side of his mouth made every time he stifled a smile – betraying him to the enemy.

 

Those ‘ _darling_ ’s made him melt, as did the other pet names. Arthur would feel his shoulders drop, his spine relax, and the skin on his face – normally pinched with concentration – to fall smooth. He’d fight it, though – fight it to the bitter end – keeping his body stiff and his muscles tense and ready. But Eames would always _know._ He would always be _watching_ , _aware_. And Arthur just couldn’t allow Eames to know, because then something would happen, and that was entirely out of the question.

 

Whether Eames merely wanted him spread across expensive hotel sheets for one night, below him and writhing as they stole passion from one another, or whether he wanted more from Arthur, the Point Man didn’t know. _It doesn’t matter_ , he reminded himself harshly. And it really _doesn’t_ matter, at all. He was never meant to meet Eames – the Forger was only here due to a previous team member ending up dead, floating face down in the Thames. They would do this job and split ways, and that was the way it was meant to be. This was all like some horribly unfunny joke.

  
**I think you'd better leave.** His mind prompted him.  
**It's not safe in here.** He had to get out now, before it was too late.

 

Eames was watching him curiously – _always_ – and remaining silent. Arthur was aware that he had never answered the man’s question, but now too much time had passed for him to do so. It would be awkward, the pause drawn out too long, and he might just say something he would regret.

 

Arthur scrambled to shove his laptop and folders into his laptop bag and to shrug his jacket on precisely. He was sure that none of his indecision – _desire_ – was visible in his movements. Except, of course, Eames would read the stiffness in his joints and know that he was fighting something down. Maybe that was why the man didn’t pull himself out of his chair to mirror Arthur’s movements, or maybe it was for some other reason. He didn’t care either way; he was just grateful to be given the opportunity to slip out alone.

 

“You sure you don’t want to get drinks and head back to mine, darling?” Eames posed the question again – the question that had started this. It wasn’t an innocent question. It wasn’t _meant_ to be innocent. It didn’t help Arthur figure out whether the Forger wanted him for the night or for longer, but he could appreciate the straightforwardness. Except, of course, that it had immediately shot electricity down his spine – almost uncomfortable in how sentient it made him – and had started this whole mess of confusing thoughts.

  
**I feel a weakness coming on.**

****

His coat was on and done up, his bag slung over his shoulder with the material pressed against the dip of his lower back, and Arthur felt drawn towards the other man. Eames had set his chair down on the concrete properly, watching him as Arthur took a few steps towards him – a noticeably different angle from the direction of the door. Those eyes, colours blending together in the dimness of the room, looked eager, nervous, and hopeful.

 

 _Would it really be so bad_? He wondered to himself silently, pausing in his steps when he realized what he was doing – far enough from Eames that the man would need get out of his chair to touch Arthur. He could climb into Eames’s lap in the chair, or tip him to the floor, or lead him back to his desk. He could shove the extra piles of paper and information aside quickly; it would be easy to reorganize them in the morning. Arthur could have Eames in moments, no preceding drinks required, and maybe get this desire out of his system – out of his blood.

 

 _It wouldn’t be bad at all_ , his mind prodded him and he took one more step closer. If Eames reached out right now, the man’s calloused fingertips would be able to feel the briefest hint of the pressed fabric of Arthur’s suit jacket. The Forger remained still though, watching him carefully. _But then_ , a terrifying thought came rushing to him then, _I might want more. I might not have a choice in realizing what it is I want_.

 

With that thought in mind, Arthur took two jerky steps backward, away from Eames, and then adopted a quick pace towards the door. He didn’t run – he never ran from anything – but he was out of the warehouse before Eames could utter another syllable on the matter.

 

That had been too close.

 

#

“ **Alright then** ,” he heard his own voice say before he realized what was happening. **(Alright then.)**  
**I could keep your number for a rainy day.**

Arthur felt Eames press the crumpled sheet of paper ripped from one of his notebooks into his hand. He glanced down at it and saw the Forger’s number scrawled messily on the paper. He also saw that the ink, which had not yet dried entirely, had stained the palm of his hand where he had accepted the paper. Even though Arthur knew that the ink would melt away with a bit of water and soap, he felt as though the slightly smudged but still legible numbers would be there forever.

 

 _Keep it for a rainy day, darling_ , Eames had suggested. The man had given many other reasons and suggestions as to why Arthur should accept the number before that, but this was the one that had finally gotten him to agree. It seemed as though he was safe, accepting the number under those pretences. After all, they were in Alexandria and even though they were by the coast, they were still close to the desert. It rarely rained in Egypt.

  
**That's where this ends.  
No mistakes no misbehaving.**

 

He chanted this to himself in his head, like a mantra, to solidify the thought. He had to draw a line, and quickly. Even now, with his fingers nearly turning white with how tightly he was clutching the strip of paper, his heart was racing and his stomach was fluttering. Arthur felt as though he were in equal danger of laughing – giddy – as he was at throwing up his lunch – nervous.

 

It ended here, with Eames’s number between his fingers and smeared across his palm, and would go no further. Arthur would not be giving the Forger his number in return; the man would have to wait for him. Nor, if and when Arthur _did_ call, would things progress beyond this point. He didn’t care if Eames would be expecting something else when – no, _if_ – he heard his phone ringing and saw the Point Man’s name sprawled across the screen. He didn’t care that he might let the man down, or disappoint him.

 

Arthur wouldn’t – _couldn’t_ – make any mistakes here; couldn’t misbehave. He couldn’t indulge in his desires, nor allow himself to get wrapped up in the ‘ _maybe_ ’s and ‘ _what if_ ’s. Eames was a Forger, a co-worker only, and would disappear once this job was complete. Arthur would not stand for distractions to botch the job, no matter the temptation.

  
**I was doing so well.**

 

The thought flitted through his mind hazily as he pocketed the sheet of paper and turned back to his work. He felt his heart sinking, already aware of his failure. After all, he had failed to resist the temptation, had he not? This morning when he had stepped into the warehouse, he had not had Eames’s number. At lunchtime, when he stole a Styrofoam container of pasta from the take-out pile that Nash been sent out for and took it back to his desk, he had not had Eames’s number. But then, while the rest of the team returned to their work – Nash to his sketches and Cobb to the PASIV – Eames had slunk over innocently and settled on the edge of the Point Man’s desk.

 

The Forger was still there now, sitting on the edge of the worn wood as though he belonged there, as though it was his rightful place by Arthur’s side. Eames had succeeded in wearing down Arthur’s resolve though, and was in the process of returning both feet to the concrete, ready to pull away. All of a sudden, without much thought involved for once, Arthur caught Eames’s hand with his own. He pressed the man’s hand to the wood, pressure demanding but not painful, and stilled him.

  
“ **Could we just be friends?** ” he pleaded suddenly – quietly. He hated how weak – _desperate, lost_ – he sounded. He hated asking Eames, as though the Forger was somehow superior to him, as though he was the one making the decisions. Even though he knew the man respected him, despite the teasing and the occasional sarcastic condescension. There was a small – _tiny_ – part of Arthur that hoped – _prayed_ – that Eames might agree, might back off. Maybe, just maybe, make this a little easier to fight and ignore.

Eames turned back around, sitting on the edge of the desk again and regarding him seriously; though those eyes remained soft and seemed to dance... _Mesmerizing_ , Arthur couldn’t help but think.

 

**I feel a weakness coming on.**

****

He felt Eames lift Arthur’s hand with his own, touch oh so delicate and tender. He felt his cheeks tingling and his skin flush as he thought about Eames’s fingers gliding over the rest of his body; just as soft, just as affectionate. Eames held his hand, the back of Arthur’s hand cupped in Eames’s palm, before the Forger brought his other skilled hand to work. He carefully pried the Point Man’s fingers apart to expose his palm before the Forger leaned forward and kissed the skin that was stained with his number.

 

Then, just as warm, slow and demonstrative as ever, Eames curled Arthur’s fingers back into a fist so that he was clutching the number close. Eames twisted Arthur’s fisted hand, feeling no resistance from the Point Man – _I was doing so well_ – and kissed each of his knuckles lovingly. “I doubt it, darling.”

#

  
**It's not meant to be like this.**  
Not what I planned at all.  
I don't want to feel like this.  
Yeah. 

 

Arthur was settled in the comfortable armchair provided in his hotel room. The cushions were a dark green and were soft enough to allow him to melt into the chair; it felt as though he were being held in a warm embrace as the fabric reflected his heat back to him. He had picked the chair up and moved it out onto his balcony, preferring the soft chair to the plastic one left for outdoor exposure.

 

It was warm at this time of year, and humid with the moisture in the air from the coast. However, the only thing he had removed since returning back to his hotel room for the evening was his suit jacket. His pressed black slacks, crisp white shirt, and burgundy waistcoat were still in place, if a little wrinkled. He had begun to remove his tie when he moved out onto the balcony but had changed his mind, leaving it to hang loosely under his starched collar to collect sweat.

 

He was watching the cityscape around him, the fifteenth floor providing an excellent view of the lit up streets and nearby coast. It was not nearly as busy as it would be during the day, but there was always a constant stream of background noise wafting up to him from the city’s nightlife. Arthur didn’t pay it much attention though; it sounded like white noise to him as he fell deeper and deeper into his thoughts.

 

It was late – ridiculously, horribly, disgustingly late – but he hadn’t been capable of quieting his mind down enough to fall to sleep once he had returned from the warehouse for the evening. The Point Man had eventually grown frustrated and hoped that fresh air would either exhaust him or spur his thoughts into some focus so that he could stop spiralling in circles.

  
**No it's not meant to be like this.**  
Not what I planned at all.  
I don't want to feel like this.  
So that makes it all your fault. 

He had poured himself a drink, hoping, maybe, that the alcohol might help as well. The hotel glass sat on the plastic table beside him though, untouched but for one initial sip to test the quality of the scotch. The glass was not alone though, and was being kept company by Arthur’s mobile phone. He was doing his best to ignore the device though, the cold metal reflecting the city lights to catch his attention every time he turned his head away.

 

Instead, he was staring at his hand, which was resting palm up on his thigh. Eames’s number had faded each time Arthur had washed his hands, but there was still enough ink caught in the seams of the skin on his hand for the Point Man to decipher the number anyway. Not that it was terribly important since he had programmed the number into his phone and still had the original slip of paper shoved into his laptop bag. But the ink soaked into the pores of his skin held his attention; it felt more natural and yet sillier – like his high school crush had written his number on his palm and he wasn’t quite ready to wash that away yet.

 

Arthur sighed and reached over with his other hand, plucking his phone from the table. He stared at it for a long moment, twisting it to and fro as though there might be something new about the device that might tell him what he should do. When that failed, he unlocked the phone and skimmed his finger over the screen idly, debating. A moment later he turned the screen off again and set it back on the table with a sigh. This had been reoccurring for at least two hours now.

 

He wondered – embarrassed, angry, curious, shy – if Eames would answer his phone if he called, if the Forger would leave the comfort of his own bed to come to the Point Man’s room at his request. Arthur wondered what would happen if Eames _did_ come. Would they talk and at least attempt to maintain some semblance of professional, or at least friendly, distance? Or would they quickly collide with one another, shortly followed by the first flat surface they came into contact with?

 

Would Eames lead him to the bed – traditional – and press him softly into the mattress? Or would they not make it that far? There was a couch that was closer than the bed where Eames might pull him down and lead Arthur through their passion, legs straddling the Forger’s. He truly doubted they’d make it as far as the couch though. Arthur’s guess was that he would either end up shivering and chilled with his bare skin pressed against the balcony sliding door, or acquire rug burn from the carpet that was soft, but definitely not made for fucking. He growled quietly and ignored the twitch from his cock, which was showing interest in his string of fantasies. Bringing his own release had done nothing to quench this the first time, and now he was too frustrated to enjoy a second round.

 

Arthur also couldn’t help but wonder – _worry_ – what would happen if Eames _didn’t_ come. If Arthur _didn’t_ call.

 

This was all Eames’s fault: he had given Arthur his number. Before, when the Point Man was plagued by these thoughts, he would be able to drown them out rather quickly. After all, he wasn’t going to have sex with Eames at the warehouse – _too unprofessional_ – nor was he going to actively search the man out by calling the hotel reception for the man’s room number – _too needy_.

 

But now all he had to do was unlock his phone – a simple four digit number he could already input blindfolded – press two buttons, and his phone would be calling Eames. It was terribly tempting, and far too easy to ignore. Now it wasn’t a matter of talking himself out of making an effort to further whatever it was that was growing between them. Now, all because of Eames, Arthur was forced to remain up all night with his thoughts as he debated the potential benefits and consequences of typing in four numbers, pressing two buttons, and speaking one word: “Come.”

 

Arthur picked up his phone again, unlocked it, skimmed his finger over Eames’s number, and then turned off the screen again to set it on the table. He distracted himself from his frustration and tense body by tracing the pad of one finger over the ink on his palm while he looked out over the railing. He groaned to himself, allowing the small noise to escape as he saw the far horizon lightening to a murky grey. Dawn was approaching and he had been up all night fondling his phone in indecision.

 

Perfect.

 

#

  
**Inside-out, upside-down,  
Twisting beside myself.**

 

It was a rainy day.

 

How was Arthur’s luck so terrible that this had to happen? It was not only that he had ended up in Alexandria on one of the few days of the year it rained, trapped in this verbal agreement – _challenge_ – with Eames to call him on a rainy day. No, it was much more than that. Dom had called him about thirty minutes ago, Arthur in the process of threading his tie in place and pulling it into a pristine knot, and told him not to bother coming into the warehouse. _No point getting soaked when we can work solo for a day_ , the Extractor had reasoned. _Besides, the authorities have said everyone should stay inside in case of flooding_.

 

 _Flooding_! Arthur felt like scoffing at the idea. He thought he had been safe when he accepted Eames’s number for a rainy day. Now here he was, trapped in the same hotel as said man by torrential rainfall. After that first night with the number, Arthur had managed to push it from his mind. The ink had washed way, his fingers stopped tracing the Forger’s contact information on his phone’s screen, and Eames had not mentioned it further.

 

However, now Arthur’s stomach was twisting into knots as he stood by the wall of windows, glancing past his balcony to the murky gray sky and the steady downpour blocking out distanced sights. His fingers had already danced along his phone’s screen to unlock it and pull up his list of contacts – _eager traitors_. But Arthur’s pride for never backing away from a challenge, mixed with his own temptations, had him quickly pressing Eames’s name and bringing his phone to his ear hesitantly.

 

The phone rang through a few times and Arthur felt as though his body might just spontaneously combust with how violently it was thrumming with nerves. Three jarring rings passed and Arthur was about to disconnect when the familiar – _comforting_ – English voice broke across the Point Man’s phone. “Hello?” the man questioned cautiously, Arthur having decided to block his name from caller ID.

 

“It’s a rainy day,” he stated simply, not knowing what else to say. He didn’t trust himself to say more, worried that his voice might sound as jittery as his body felt.

 

There was a moment’s pause, but Arthur waited. He knew the Forger had not hung up on him – he could hear the man breathing. “So it is,” Eames responded, sounding surprised and also annoyingly triumphant.

 

“1503,” was all he said before disconnecting the call hurriedly. He didn’t wait to hear Eames’s response, even though he was also desperate to know it. Would the man figure out that Arthur had spoken his room number? Probably. But what would happen after that? Would Eames laugh to himself at Arthur’s final failure and remain in his own room – had this been a joke?

 

Probably not. Not with the way Eames stared at him, _touched_ him. The real question was whether they would try to pretend to be friends, or whether they would lose themselves to desire and hang the consequences. Arthur shrugged mildly to himself and turned his phone off before setting it on the bedside table. He then took a few calming moments to look for things to clean and organize in the room – not that there was anything that needed such attention – to compose his mind and body.

 

He was at war with himself when he heard a solid knock at his door only a few minutes later. Arthur allowed himself a small smirk at the other man’s eagerness, though he wiped it from his face as he crossed the room and pulled the door open. “Odd weather we’re having, wouldn’t you agree, darling?” Eames asked in way of greeting from where he was leaning on the doorframe.

 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to agree,” Arthur conceded as he stepped away from the door. He returned to the windows overlooking his balcony again, trying to distract himself with the view of the rain falling down in sheets. Now that Eames was in his room – _so close, all mine_ – Arthur was suddenly desperate for distance, space. He did his best not to swallow noticeably when he heard the door close and the locks slide into place.

 

Arthur watched out of the corner of his eye as Eames stepped towards him and the window slowly – as predatory and careful as a hunter approaching a frightened deer. He saw that the man was still in the clothes he would have worn to the warehouse, undoubtedly too lazy to change after Cobb’s phone call. There was a belt keeping those slacks in place – looking easy to remove, Arthur’s mind supplied analytically – and the shirt of a horrendous polyester blend was held together with frail-looking buttons.

 

The only thing out of place from the professional – Arthur’s mind outraged at the concept of calling _that_ professional – outfit was that Eames was barefoot after removing his ugly, vibrant orange flip flops at the door. Arthur himself was barefoot as well and his mind couldn’t help but remind him that they had both removed the most annoying obstacle towards being naked.

  
**Stop that now.**  
You're as close as it gets  
Without touching me. 

 

“Stop,” he commanded quickly when Eames stepped into his personal space. The Forger did pause, as ordered, but was still far too close. Eames was close enough that Arthur could feel the man’s warm breath on his face, their lips only a few inches apart – _so close_. The man’s hand was still held aloft where it had been when Arthur froze him, cupped to hold the Point Man’s cheek. Eames’s hand was so close that Arthur could feel the warmth radiating from the palm to his skin, and he shivered when he felt his hair rise, desperate for the touch.

 

Their bodies were as close as they could be without touching, and Arthur could practically feel the tension, energy and desire vibrating between them. It was all Arthur could do to keep his control – to keep himself from bridging the gap and moulding his body against the other man. But he knew that once they touched – this time so different from the near-accidental caresses during work now that there was clear intent and privacy to continue – he would never be able to stop.

 

“You know this isn’t just about the sex for me, right darling?” Eames whispered to him, words and breath washing over Arthur like a calming breeze on a summer’s day.

  
“ **Oh now don't make it harder**

 **Than it already is** ,” he huffed in return, not sounding nearly as angry as he wanted.

**I feel a weakness coming on.**

 

“You need to know,” Eames’s hand was still in the air, hovering so close now that Arthur could feel the man’s palm graze the tiny hairs on his skin. His whole body – every nerve ending – was sparking to life and frantic for more. “I would hate to have us miss out because of fears and assumptions.” ****

****

Arthur could already feel his body wavering with indecision, Eames wiping away his fears. There was still a tiny question in Arthur’s mind – _what if he’s lying?_ – but it was quickly losing strength – _Eames isn’t like that_. He felt his body’s decision before his mind caught up when he leaned forward into Eames’s hand, warm palm holding and caressing his jaw and cheek. Arthur sighed heavily – satisfied as though he had just solved a complicated puzzle – and allowed his eyes to flutter closed.

  
**It's not meant to be like this.**  
Not what I planned at all.  
I don't want to feel like this.  
Yeah. 

 

Eames’s fingers roamed over Arthur’s skin with one hand, while the other hand snaked around the Point Man’s waist to hold in steady. Arthur felt as though he were being locked in place, Eames refusing to let him leave now that the decision had been made, but he couldn’t bring himself to argue. This shouldn’t be happening – Arthur shouldn’t be _allowing_ this to happen – but it didn’t seem to matter when he shivered in Eames’s embrace and pressed himself closer to that inviting warmth.

 

Despite the fact that Eames had given Arthur his number, none of this was planned. Neither of them had expected a heavy downpour in Egypt, nor – Arthur was quite sure – had either of them expected Arthur to give in and call Eames when faced with rain. Neither of them was new when it came to pleasure, but they were new to one another. There were nooks and pleasure points mapped across both of their bodies that neither of them had yet discovered – one such nook in the dip between his ear and jaw causing Arthur to gasp when Eames experimentally leaned forward and licked it.

 

They were experimenting with one another, not following any set plan or pattern, and Arthur hated how quickly he was swept up in the sensations. His fingers were dancing slowly - tracing day-old stubble on that strong jaw, gliding over softer cheekbones than his own, and scraping against the hard column of the Forger’s neck – but Eames was quickly inhibiting Arthur’s ability to think, let alone move.

 

Eames’s fingers seemed to be everywhere, caressing every inch of Arthur’s exposed skin as though the Point Man was a rare masterpiece, newly discovered. They skimmed over his jaw line, recently shaved, and followed the path around the shell of each ear before brushing his cheekbones in turn. Eames touched his forehead, smoothed out his furrowed eyebrows until they relaxed, and then trailed down the bridge of his nose to rest on his lips.

 

Arthur knew that lips were sensitive, which was why, scientifically, kissing was so pleasurable. And he couldn’t deny how the pressure of Eames’s thumb pressed against his lower lip – indenting it slightly – made him impatient to feel the Forger’s own lips against his own. But what surprised him was how delicious the soft pad of Eames’s thumb felt when it brushed along Arthur’s lower, and then upper lip. The sensation was heightened with Arthur’s eyes clenched closed, and he felt his lips parting slightly without his consent. He heard a tiny whine vibrate in the back of his throat when Eames began tracing the circle of his mouth, and heard the small, answering groan from Eames.

 

He keened softly when Eames’s fingers disappeared, but bit his lip instead when he felt the man’s deft fingers skilfully undo each button of his waistcoat before beginning to work on his tie. Arthur blinked his eyes open, focusing on the Forger to watch is progress anxiously.

  
“ **No it's not meant to be like this** ,” he protested softly, feeling as though he should at least try to make one last attempt at maintaining control – however feeble the attempt turned out to be.

 

“Hang the rules, love,” Eames chided him affectionately. Arthur’s waistcoat slid off his shoulders to land on the floor in a heap, his tie fluttering down after it. Eames quickly turned his attention to the buttons on the Point Man’s shirt, eager.

  
“ **Not what I planned at all** ,” Arthur grumbled mournfully, even as he pushed the fabric of Eames’s shirt off the man’s broad shoulders. He watched it pool behind the Forger before allowing his eyes to roam freely over the muscular, sun-kissed chest presented to him.

 

“It’s more fun this way,” Eames reminded him, pausing in his work for a moment to grasp Arthur’s hand and press it against the Forger’s chest, a clear hint. “An exciting, new adventure that neither of us can plan.”

  
“ **I don't want to feel like this** ,” he hedged verbally, even as he began gliding his fingers as one across bare skin. Eames shivered and pressed closer when Arthur’s fingers skimmed along the man’s neck before sliding down to tease the skin surrounding the Forger’s navel.

 

“So?” Eames whispered teasingly, gently pushing Arthur’s shirt from his shoulders and down his arms to join the rest of the fabric on the floor.

  
“ **So that makes it all your fault** ,” Arthur stated, smirking.

Eames merely grinned at that, not denying a thing, and leaned in to effectively claim Arthur’s lips and muffle his objections.

  
**Big trouble, losing control.  
Primary resistance at a critical low.**

 

Arthur felt his resistance melting as his lips and body moulded against Eames, and from there on things began to pick up a pace neither of them had any chance of stopping. The kiss was slow, soft and harmonious for a few long moments, like a well practiced waltz. Arthur had to remind himself silently that this was their first kiss, amazed at how perfectly they came together as one. But then it was like someone had changed the music on them and they morphed into a type of tango. Still smooth – _sensual_ – in every movement, but eager and anticipating faster – _bolder_ – actions.

 

His fingers slid into Eames’s short hair, digging in and pulling – _crushing_ – Eames’s lips against his own. He felt the man smirk against his mouth, which only spurred him on as he parted his lips challengingly. Eames’s tongue darted into his mouth immediately, not needing further instruction, and began exploring heatedly. Arthur felt the Forger’s fingers slide into his own hair, mussing it out of its gelled state until Arthur was sure it was sticking on end, and then drop those skilled hands to begin work on the Point Man’s belt.

  
**On the double gotta get a hold.  
Point of no return one second to go.**

Arthur’s mind reminded him – _screamed_ – that he had to get a hold of himself this _second_ , lest he pass the inevitable point that neither dream worker could return from. If they continued past this point, stole – no, _shared_ – passion with this new understanding between them that this was more than just sex, there would be no stopping them. If he didn’t pull away right now, he might just stay like this for the rest of his life, in Eames’s warm embrace with the man’s skilled hands and lips on him.

  
**No response on any level,  
Red-alert this vessel's under siege.**

 

All of Arthur’s thoughts screeched to a halt when Eames reached past the Point Man’s waistband and gripped him firmly. Arthur gasped into the Forger’s mouth and wrenched away for air, moaning lowly when the large, searing hot hand enveloping his hard cock began stroking at a demanding pace. His pants were already pooled around his ankles, the weight of his belt dragging them down, and Eames pushed his boxer briefs halfway down his thighs impatiently.

 

Arthur batted Eames’s busy – wonderfully _skilled_ – hand away regretfully and pushed the elastic down the rest of the way, stepping from the pool of constricting fabric. He stood up again, satisfied as he felt the hotel’s circulating air brush against his skin, and began working on the Forger’s belt nimbly. His hands were busy as Eames began stroking him again and caught his lips in another kiss, pulling a needy moan from his throat that dragged out an answering groan in return.

  
**Total overload all systems down they've got control.**

 

It was a miracle that neither of them tripped or fell as Eames began walking him backwards towards where Arthur knew the bed was located. He had Eames’s belt undone and the zipper down, able to feel the rigid line of the other man’s hard cock, before the backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress and he fell backwards. It was a jolt to be ripped away from the pleasure of Eames’s mouth and hand, but he watched with hooded eyes as Eames hastily removed the rest of his clothing.

 

Arthur noticed the Forger pull a small tube of lube and a condom from his discarded pants before he joined the Point Man on the bed. He couldn’t help but sigh; Eames had clearly been expecting this since he had heard Arthur’s voice across the phone. That thought fell away though as Arthur was led towards the centre of the bed before Eames straddled his thighs, one knee hooked into each dip above Arthur’s hips, and pinned him.

 

He felt as though every one of his senses was overloading, too many sensations for his body to handle. Eames was pressed against him, pushing him into the mattress. A delectable amount of their skin was touching, warm and comforting even as it wound him tighter. The smell of sweat, arousal, the man’s faded cologne, and a musk that was uniquely Eames swarmed around him, demanding his attention. He could still taste Eames in his mouth and on his lips, even though the Forger was kissing every new inch of skin bared to him; the taste was addicting and Arthur wanted more. He couldn’t bring himself to stop the Forger though, enjoying the sight of Eames hovering over him – skin flushed and sharp eyes meeting his own, dark with desire – and the sound of Eames’s sinfully lush lips sucking the taut skin of Arthur’s lower abdomen.

  
**There's no way out.  
We are surrounded.**

 

Eames leaned forward to steal another heated kiss, already pinning Arthur’s legs in place and pressing the Point Man’s hands down with his own. The Forger’s body was entirely sprawled across Arthur, leaving him with a sense of being surrounded. But instead of panicking, as he thought he might, he relished in it and twined his arms around Eames’s neck, pulling him down and closer – _closer_.

 

He unhooked his arms grudgingly when Eames pulled away and watched impatiently as the other man popped open the lube, coating his fingers. Arthur planted his feet on the bed, knees in the air and spread at Eames’s leading, gentle touch. When he felt a finger slide into him tenderly, Arthur forced himself to relax and give the other man admittance. It was tight, but not painful, and the first finger was quickly joined by a second, and then _third_ finger. Arthur clenched his eyes closed and panted, body tense as Eames carefully stretched and prepared him; his body only relaxed when Eames began kissing along his inner thigh, whispering praise and adoring words Arthur never thought he’d hear from such a flirtatious, irresponsible Forger.

 

Feeling Eames inside of him, even though it was only the man’s fingers, made Arthur feel surrounded again, but in the best way. He was being claimed, but it was no longer about who broke – _lost control_ – first; it was about shared passion and loving, adoring touches Arthur had not been prepared for. Eames pulled out soon after – _too soon_ , _not soon enough_ – and reached for the condom wrapper. “Don’t,” Arthur panted, brushing his sweaty hair away from his eyes.

 

“Darling?” Eames questioned, cautious but hopeful.

 

“We share needles with the PASIV – we’re both clean,” he stated, impatient and desperate. He smiled when Eames nodded and grasped the lube instead, flicking the condom wrapper off the bed. Arthur watched Eames coat his hand and stroke himself a few times, their eyes holding in a heated, daring stare. Then Eames was shuffling closer to him, leading Arthur to hook his spread legs around the Forger’s hips, ankles locking against Eames’s lower back.

  
**Give in, give in and relish every minute of it.**

****Eames lined himself up at Arthur’s entrance and pushed in slowly, drawing a deep groan from both dream workers. Arthur used the position of his feet to pull Eames in closer, lifting his hips to meet the Forger halfway. His back came to rest against the mattress again once Eames had bottomed out, both of them panting heavily and desperately clinging for some semblance of control to make this last.

 

Then, their eyes locked, Eames gripped Arthur’s hips firmly enough to bruise, and the man pulled out before thrusting back in brutally. Arthur threw his head back against the pillows, eyes on the ceiling and fingers clutching the sheets so tightly that he could hear the seams ripping, and gasped Eames’s name. It was long, drawn out, and breathy, but before Arthur had a chance to recover and catch his breath – _prepare_ – Eames had set a demanding pace.

 

Arthur did his best to meet Eames’s thrusts, succeeding in gusto but not synchrony. Neither of them seemed to mind though, too lost in the pleasure of skin on skin. Arthur’s legs were still wound around Eames’s hips, held in place there by the Forger’s wonderfully large hands, and spurring the man on. He wanted to yell to Eames what he wanted – _harder, please, faster_ – but intermixed with the fast pace there were occasional, sensual – _deep, claiming_ – thrusts like the first. Arthur’s head would fall back again, his spine would arch dangerously, and he would be gasping – _Eames_ – again.

 

He didn’t manage to speak much else beyond that, struggling to make this last while following his lover. His whole body was wound tight, skin pulled taut over every muscle in his body, which was tensed and vibrating with adrenaline and arousal. Arthur could smell his arousal in the air, mixed with Eames’s musk, and he could barely believe how it turned him on more, made him more frantic for it. His body had adjusted to Eames’s large size by now but his mind was stuttering – incapable of thought – every time he felt his body clench around the Forger’s moving cock. It felt amazing, feeling the bare skin of the man’s cock slide inside him, aided by lube and precome – it set a haze over his mind – and Arthur saw stars every time his lover attacked the bundle of nerves deep inside him.

 

Arthur survived another few minutes of claiming thrusts, demanding hands, and whispers of things he could only nod to and repeat back to Eames – _so good, so hot, perfect, just like that, love it, love it, love you, god I love you so much_ – despite feeling like he might just catch on fire and burn forever. Another brutal thrust came and Arthur clenched his eyes closed – trying to escape from his climax, wanting this to last forever – as he felt his whole body slide up the bed with Eames’s force. Eames pulled him down the sheets again, only to meet another vicious thrust as one of the Forger’s skilled hands left his hip to wrap around Arthur’s cock firmly.

  
**Freeze, awake here forever.**

His whole body froze and arched into the touch, unable to do more than buck up as Eames stroked him tight and fast. It was almost painful, Eames’s hand too strong and dry against him, but Arthur wanted – _needed_ – it. He watched Eames work for a few moments, feeling as though time was slowing down and freezing with his body and breath, and then licked his lips and stared at the ceiling. Arthur could feel it coming, every ounce of awareness in his cock and ass, and could do nothing but gasp for air as Eames brought him over the edge.

**I feel a weakness coming on.**

 

Arthur’s body shuddered from head to toe, his fingers clutching torn fabric until they ached, back bowing until it wasn’t touching the mattress, and toes curling in bliss as he came across Eames’s working fingers and his own flexing stomach. The come on his stomach and dripping off Eames’s fingers onto his hipbone was hot, burning like the rest of his body, and Arthur felt as though he had been branded. He felt his body clenching and releasing around Eames in time with his flying heartbeat, quickly pulling his lover over the edge with a loud, filthy moan of the Point Man’s name.

**It’s not meant to be like this,**  
Not what I planned at all.  
I don’t want to feel like this.  
Yeah. 

 

He felt Eames’s come fill him in hot bursts as the man continued to thrust shallowly, burying his seed deeply inside Arthur. The Forger eventually released his hold on Arthur’s hip and softening cock, gave one final thrust, and then collapsed. Their sweaty skin slotted together, legs tangled, hips locking in place, stomachs and chests sliding with the sheen of sweat, and hands entwining above Arthur’s head. He sighed blissfully at the feel of his lover’s weight and warmth pressing him against the sheets, uncaring of their combined mess.

 

Arthur knew that this shouldn’t have happened, that they should have fought the temptation. They would never be able to go back after sharing this – confessing things they shouldn’t feel and indulging in pleasures they shouldn’t know. He had fought this and had never planned for it to come to this. Arthur didn’t want to feel the way he did for the man above him – loving affection, unyielding respect, stubborn trust. He had never wanted to feel so much for another person, worried that his happiness was now dependent upon another person – he could not rely solely on himself.

 

But as he felt Eames’s moist breath against his neck as they both recovered from their coupling, and then felt those full lips pepper open-mouthed kisses along every inch of skin the other man could reach, Arthur shivered and found that he didn’t mind one bit. He didn’t care that they shouldn’t come together like this, that this went against every one of his plans, or that his mind, body and heart were all entwined with Eames’s, hoping – _trusting_ – that Eames would love him in return.

  
**No it’s not meant to be like this,  
It's just what I don't need.**

 

Arthur couldn’t help it though, tiredly considering all of the problems, questions and uncertainties that this would create for the two dream workers. Working in the illegal profession of dream work was complicated enough, having to change his identity and country-hop more frequently than most people thought possible. He could barely imagine the difficulties caused by wanting to remain by Eames’s side when such a need arose; Eames was a capable forger and thief, Arthur knew, but it was always harder hiding two people rather than one. It was much easier to slip through the cracks running solo.

 

Even worse would be the problems and questions that would rise when they completed this job. Would Arthur and Eames remain together and only work together from now on? That hardly seemed plausible, unless they both remained with Cobb – and who knew how the Extractor would take this sort of news. It seemed more realistic that they would split up and perform their own jobs, but Arthur would be lying if he said he was pleased with the idea of them splitting up for long – _dangerous_ – periods of time.

  
“ **Why make me feel like this?** ” he whispered sadly against Eames’s skin, suddenly feeling worn down and exhausted – unsure if he could handle a long term relationship with Eames, even if he _did_ love the man.

 

“Because I love you and I want to be with you, Arthur,” Eames proclaimed softly. The Forger rolled off him carefully to lie on his side before wrapping an arm around Arthur’s waist and dragging him closer. Both of them were on their sides, facing one another with their legs twined, chests touching, and noses brushing. It was an incredibly intimate position that made Arthur feel utterly cherished and safe.

 

“The world isn’t that simple a place, Eames,” he reminded the man, scared to give in.

 

“It is if you want something badly enough, love.” The assurance in Eames’s words and tone, like he just _knew_ that things would work out if they both wanted it badly enough, finally broke down Arthur’s resolve. They were both stubborn to the death and Arthur had no doubt in his mind – with a little help from Eames’s own confidence – that they could make it work despite all obstacles as long as they were willing to fight for it.

 

He knew Eames was willing to fight for it, for _them_. The Forger had been fighting for it since they met.

 

Arthur was willing to fight for it as well, for the love and acceptance that the other man gave him readily. The Point Man had just been too busy fighting _against_ it to realize how content and complete Eames really made him.

  
“ **It's definitely all your fault** ,” Arthur admonished playfully. He watched Eames smile in adoration and amusement, feeling his own lips quirk upwards in response. And then Arthur leaned forward, bridging the tiny gap willingly to connect their lips again.

**Author's Note:**

> **You can check out[here](http://onewhositswiththeturtles.tumblr.com/) to follow my Tumblr for info about me and story updates.**


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